Sacrifice | Grimbeau

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Kris

Dewar saw the fear, read the cower, laughed.
His capricious myrmidons looked the other way.
The bush was sharp, dew damp and dirt dusty.
He jumped before he was felled.
The wounds were evidently self-inflicted.
He makes a habit of this.
Control was all.
‘He’s mad alright’ said Dewar
‘Told you‘ said Trimble.
They melt back in the playtime throng.
Parr helped him out of the bush.
The legs are scratched deep and bleeding.
Why? Contrition is the wetter part of valour.
The big yellow streak dilates.
Might is always right in the name of Peace.
Spring comes slowly up
pissing about to the echo of a toothless mastiff chewing
onea rock with a fiddle, singing of the abducted.
plonked awkward on a mute piebald palfrey

January 25, 2015

The Offering

Perchance

or deft planning

a scoop of baleful altar wine remains,

though not for long.

Rite of Spring:

callow neighbours nail eachother

to the paper partition wall – time

honours these home county behaviours –

some wayward blood drips through on this side,

my side.

I observe with some disdain treacly crimson goo

impinge clematis and home entertainment cables,

the main arteries of

reality are besmirched….

The orphan stale ham salad roll awaits

Ravenous, cavernous engorgement,

yields a surge of purpose, of demented potency,

to cut the crap,

make one’s mark,

utter and act.

December 7, 2014

Wenceslas! He Dead

Kiss my fetid arse, he mock Royal Family chortled,

and muttered chagrined at the Shrewsbury Six,

the Famous Five, and the silver sixpence

he always found coz he kept it in his waistcoat pocket.

He won’t get it this year. After all, it’s just

a feastday afternoon in the middle

of deep, dark december- a bit of fun.

So riot and dissemble, be not alone,

think of the others who have mice for family,

dining daintily on nice nibbles while

fellow peasants crave more presents and

pudding. So much to do and so little

time. Time to get it right. Just right. Surely,

that’s life after all is said and done.

A fuss about nothing, just sage & thyme

stuffing around since this time last year,

a plateful of woe, a glass full of tears.

And Uncle Norman’s toast.

Bless him.

‘Glaze your arses and roast myrhh hadyustate!

Cheers, my hearty farties,

don’t’ let it get you down,

tart it up in coriander,

and offer up your crown.’

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